Once More, with Feeling
by TheWoody
Summary: Stressful times for John Watson. He and Sherlock are still butting heads and a visit with an old army friend takes John back into his past. Ties in with "Problem Site" and "Aftermath"
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**  
Sherlock BBC is property of BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
My undying gratitude goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Beta-Reader:**  
The unrivalled don'tlikehugs18.  
You did a great work here. :-)

**Ex ante:**  
English isn't my original language. For me writing (and reading) fanfiction is a great way to improve my language skills.  
So please: leave me your honest criticism. :-)

**Trigger Warning:**  
This fic contains descriptions of violence and torture!

* * *

**Once More, with Feeling - I**

**Great Britain, London  
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'  
17\. January 2010**

The door to the laboratory at Bart's opens and bounces off the wall with a loud bang when John Watson barrels into the room. Dark blue eyes rake over the scientific equipment until they find the dark, gangly figure of a certain Consulting Detective. John grinds to a halt and looks at his flatmate with an air of urgency.

"What happened?" His rapid breath rasps loudly in the otherwise quiet lab.

Sherlock looks up from the electron microscope. "Ah, finally." A triumphant grin gleams on his angular face. "I found it, John."

"What?" John stares at the mobile phone in his left hand before his gaze returns to the other man; an incredulous expression on his lined face.

"The letter, John. I found it." The object in question is ripped from the optical device. Sherlock holds the rumpled piece of paper up like a trophy, his long nimble fingers pointing at the spidery script. "It's the unequivocal proof that Lady Ashley was murdered. The suicide was staged by her husband because she planned to divorce him."

"Unequivocal," mutters John dumbfounded.

Sherlock frowns at John's unenthusiastic behaviour. "Of course. You have to call Lestrade. Tell him to send a surveillance team to London City Airport. He'll try to leave the country soon." He starts to type away on his phone, muttering to himself like a mad scientist.

An angry flush colours John's face. "Emergency." His fingers close around his phone with a hard grip until the plastic casing cracks in protest.

The Consulting Detective sighs exasperated. "John; I know for a fact that you are capable of forming full sentences. So would you please stop those incoherent exclamations? They are irritating"

John breathes and counts silently to ten. Then he continues until he reaches twenty. "You texted me that this was an emergency," he says, every single word stressed carefully.

"Well, it certainly is urgent. If you don't call Lestrade soon, Ashley will be beyond British jurisdiction." Sherlock pockets his Blackberry and starts to flatten the letter against the surface of a nearby table. He fills a pipette with tracer liquid and presses a drop of it on the paper to test the quality of the ink.

"You know how important this was, Sherlock." John's voice carries a steely quality. Like a blade under a velvet cover. "The way I ran out of Matt's room he probably thinks we're on the brink of World War III."

Sherlock is watching the progression of his experiment with a magnifying glass and doesn't even look up when he answers: "Dull. We are on the brink of solving a murder. And in contrast to your psychologically challenged acquaintance, which is confined to the premises of the clinic, our murderer is able to move without restrictions."

John huffs exasperatedly. He knows on a purely intellectual level that Sherlock's bland dismissal of his friend's problems isn't borne of cruelty or a mean spirit. At best it's lost within the rush of the case, at worst it's simple disinterest, but it makes the doctors hackles rise none the less.

"Sherlock! Matt is a friend. And it doesn't matter that he isn't supposed to go anywhere. Damn it, I asked you not to text until it was really important." When he was still wearing uniform this tone of voice had made the lower ranks duck their heads and hope that the approaching storm wasn't intended for them, but John has learned early on that Sherlock possesses a profound immunity to anything remotely authoritarian.

That's why it doesn't really surprise him when his flatmate dismisses his words with an impatient snort. "Now that you're here, you can as well help me to bring this case to a conclusion. Call Lestrade and then fetch my coat. If we hurry we will be able to set the stage before Ashley reaches the airport."

"Screw you."

"Pardon me?" Sherlock looks up from his experiment; an expression of surprise on his aristocratic features.

"Screw you." With his fists clenched at his sides, his rigid posture and blazing eyes John is the very picture of defiance. "Screw you and screw this case. You can bloody well call Lestrade yourself Sherlock." He turns around with this military precision of his and stalks back to the door.

"Where are you going, John?" The posh voice stops the blonde doctor in his tracks.

"Where do you think I'm going? Back to the clinic of course." John doesn't turn around but the set of his shoulders betrays that he is prepared for a confrontation.

A dark chuckle rises from Sherlock's throat. "The human mind truly is a fickle thing. First you are angry because I don't include you in my work and now you're angry because I do. Make up your mind, John!"

At this John finally turns to face his flatmate: "You can't compare…"

"Oh, of course I can. But that's beside the point. I'm not willing to waste valuable time arguing with you or waiting for Lestrade. So; are you coming or not?" The implication that he is willing to pursue Ashley alone hangs in the room like a big dark cloud.

John grinds his teeth at this obvious attempt to blackmail him. Sherlock knows very well that John won't let him go all by himself.

"Fine", the doctor snarls grudgingly. He plucks Sherlock's coat off the chair standing at his right side and tosses it at the lanky detective. "Let's go then."

A superior smirk appears on Sherlock's face and John feels a thin ripple of anger in his chest. They _will_ talk about this later. And if he has to cuff Sherlock to his chair to make him listen, so be it.

The Consulting Detective shrugs into his coat. "Don't dawdle, John. The game's afoot. We have a murderer to catch." Sherlock sweeps out of the room in a dramatic fashion, leaving a weary John in his wake.

The blonde man sighs and lifts his phone to call Lestrade. This is going to be a long, long day.

"John!" The impatient reminder halls hollowly through the empty hallway.

"On my way." And with this John hurries to catch up with Sherlock Holmes.

ooOO0OOoo

**Great Britain, London  
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'  
17\. January 2010**

About eight hours later John steps into the Bethlem Royal Hospital for the second time this day. There is a different nurse on the front desk. They know each other fleetingly from his earlier visits so all she does to acknowledge his presence is a short nod in his direction. John follows the generic white corridors until he reaches room 027, currently occupied by a Matthew R. Davies. He knocks, but doesn't bother to wait for an answer before he opens the door and goes in.

The gloomy darkness that greets him in the small hospital room makes him hesitate for a moment. "Matt?"

"J… John?" The whispered answer comes from somewhere on his left side and John squints in an attempt to make out the form of his old friend. His left hand instinctively reaches for the light switch, but Matt's desperate whimper makes him freeze.

"Don't! I… I don't want them to find me."

John lets his hand fall back to his side. "It's all right Matt. I'm here. I've come back for you." He closes the door behind himself to keep the neon lights of the corridor out and slowly walks further into the room.

Matt sighs, followed by a dry, desperate chuckle. "I knew you wouldn't leave me behind, Doc."

"I wouldn't", confirms John softly.

He takes another step and is finally able to see the other man. Matt's huddled up on the far side of the bed, sitting on the floor and squeezed in the tight space between the nightstand and the wall. John crouches down in front of him, but the other man doesn't look up. His attention is currently on his hands. He holds a pencil in his right fist, using the pen's sharp end to drill little bloody holes in his left palm. Dark red dots adorn the grey linoleum in front of him.

John has been aware that today was one of the worst days, but Matt hadn't been that bad when he had left this morning. And it positively frightens him how fast his friend's mental state has deteriorated.

"Give me the pencil, Matty." John holds out his left hand in a demanding gesture, but the other man shakes his head frantically.

"I can't. I have to get them out." The sharp end of the pencil digs deeper into his flesh and another drop of blood drips onto the floor.

John straightens his posture. "Sergeant; you'll hand this damn pencil over right now!"

Matt flinches at John's commanding bark, but his reflexive "Yes, Sir!" carries at least some of the bite John remembers from their days in the service. He slaps the pencil on John's waiting hand and the doctor immediately stores it out of sight in the left rear pocket of his jeans.

Carefully he extends his hand a second time. "Show me?"

This time it is a question not a demand, but the other man doesn't hesitate to put his left hand palm up into John's steady grip. The blonde doctor pulls a small penlight from the breast pocket of his jacket and clicks it on to be able to asses the damage his friend has done to himself. Matt flinches violently when the small bundle of light knifes through the gloomy darkness, but John doesn't let go.

"Don't worry", he murmurs. "They won't find us back here."

Matt shakes his head and looks at John with something akin to pity. "They will. They always find me."

For a long moment both men look at each other, neither of them willing to break the eye contact. John's breath catches in his throat and he feels the sting of very real pain deep in his chest when he sees the naked desperation in his friend's brown eyes. He has lived and fought at Matt's side for more than six years and the knowledge that he isn't able to help his comrade out of this black abyss he created in his own mind hits him once again like the proverbial brick wall.

In the end it's Matt who averts his eyes fist. "You wanted to see." he whispers, resignation on the forefront of his voice.

"Yeah…" John directs his attention back to their joined hands. The blood on Matt's palm and fingers is already sticky with beginnings of coagulation and the stab wounds have stopped bleeding a few minutes ago. The injuries are small in diameter, but some of them are alarmingly deep. John is nevertheless positive that they won't need stitches. With the right dressing and a few days of immobilisation they will heal just fine.

John is suppressing a relieved sigh when a mark on Matt's wrist catches his attention. He catches the sleeve of the other man's hoody and starts to ease the grey fabric up to Matt's elbow. The man's arms are marred with long bloody furrows where he's dug his fingernails deep into his own skin. John has to close his eyes for a moment and he berates himself for his lack of attention. He knows that when he checks Matt's hands, he will find blood and skin under the nails of his fingers. _You see, but you don't observe._ Yes, indeed. Sherlock would have probably deduced this little fact within the first ten seconds after laying eyes on Matt. John swallows hard to get the taste of bitter disappointment off his tongue. He has expected more of himself. He should have been able to see this. It doesn't matter that those injuries have been hidden beneath Matt's clothing, but as a doctor John should have known that his friend's attempt with the pencil hadn't been the first act of today's drama.

His fingers ghost over Matt's bloody forearms without actually touching the skin. "What did you do that for?"

John looks up and finds himself confronted with his friend's intense stare. Matt makes a low keening sound before he answers John's question: "It's because I can't get them out, Sir. They're crawling everywhere under my skin and I can't get them out." He flexes his fingers unconsciously and the wounds in his left palm start to bleed again.

"They?" John's voice is no more than a whisper and he can feel how something dark uncoils deep within his mind.

Matt looks at him like he expects John to know what he is talking about. His eyes dart across the room in a restless frenzy. "The ants, John", he breathes shakily. "The ants…"

Ants.

John's breath hitches violently and he can feel cold sweat collecting along his spine.

Of course.

ooOO0OOoo

_**North Korea, Kij**_**ŏ**_**ngdong  
N 37° 56' 43.9902" E 126° 39' 21.6072"  
09\. July 2005**_

_The hole in the ground wasn't even especially deep. Four feet, five at most. But it was still enough to submerge the wooden crate the men had unceremoniously dropped into it. Right now the men were busy filling it up and every hollow thump of dirt on wood made the muscles in John's arms flex in helpless fury. The zip ties that bound his hands behind his back, bit harshly into the sweaty skin of his wrists._

_The air was hot and humid – typical for the Monsoon season in this part of the Asian continent – but the muffled, close-mouthed whimpers that came from the partially buried crate made gooseflesh ripple across John's body._

_John, Ian and Rob had been forced to kneel beside each other on the dirt floor of the secluded courtyard, compelled to watch helplessly as their comrade was buried alive; crammed into a small wooden crate with nothing but a bag full of fire ants to keep him company._

_It didn't take long for the first bloodcurdling screams to penetrate the fast growing layer of dirt. John started to struggle against his bindings, the muscles in his legs straining to get himself back into a standing position.  
"Let him out of there you damn bastards. You'll gain nothing if you do this. Nothing…" A sharp pain exploded at the back of his head._

_John must have blacked out for an instant because the next moment he was lying face down on the hard packed ground, dirt grinding between his teeth and a heavy boot between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. There were sounds of a struggle to his right, but it was hard to concentrate beyond the merciless ponding at the back of his skull. John shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision and he felt warm blood running down behind his ears. And then he became aware of the screams. Davies was still screaming. He tried to get back on his knees, but the cold kiss of an AK's muzzle at the back of his neck made him cease his efforts. _

"_Come on. Gimme a reason, soldier." The southern drawl reminded him of the old John Wayne movies he'd seen as a child. But unlike the western heroes of his childhood days, the voice of the man behind him was filled with a dark glee. That man would be absolutely happy to get an opportunity to rip John to pieces._

_John took a deep breath and let the tension slowly leave his body. He stole a glance at his comrades. Ian was lying on the ground, unconscious or dead. Rob was sporting an impressive bruise on his left temple, but he seemed to be okay otherwise._

"_We can't t'll you nuthing." The clinical part of John registered that his pronunciation had suffered significantly. Bleeding head wound, reduced sight, difficulties in pronunciation, nausea and vertigo. Commotio cerebri, first or second degree. Or in other words: a good old-fashioned concussion. Damn._

_The man behind him chuckled darkly. "How about you let us be the judge of that?"_

_John tried to breathe through the dizzy spell that threatened to overwhelm him. Matt's screams were still ringing in his ears and John was dead sure that he would never forget this sound as long as he lived. The sound of naked desperation._

_He was pretty sure that Matt wouldn't be the only one screaming before this day came to an end._

ooOO0OOoo  
TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**  
Sherlock BBC is property of BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
My undying gratitude goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Beta-Reader:**  
The unrivalled don'tlikehugs18.  
You did a great work here. :-)

**Ex ante:**  
English isn't my original language. For me writing (and reading) fanfiction is a great way to improve my language skills.  
So please: Reviews would be great. :-)

**Trigger Warning:**  
This fic contains descriptions of violence and torture!

* * *

**Once More, with Feeling II  
**

**Great Britain, London  
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'  
17\. January 2010**

"John? Captain Watson, Sir?" A tentative touch on his left shoulder brings John abruptly back into the present. He is on the brink of hyperventilation and his left hand has closed around Matt's wrist with so much force that he can feel the bones grind against each other under his grip.

He lets go immediately. "Sorry. I'm so sorry Matt." John closes his eyes and takes a few seconds to get his breathing back under his control. Matt watches him, his hands brushing restlessly over his bare forearms.

John catches his wrists with both hands; overtly careful this time. "No more of that, heh?"

The other man stills, looking at him with expectant eyes.

"How about you let me clean that up?" John gestures at the wounds that litter his friend's hand and arms. "Perhaps we can even get rid of those nasty little buggers in the process." He looks at Matt with a serious expression.

Whatever Matt reads in his face seems to convince him that John can indeed help. He nods and seems to uncurl a bit from his defensive huddle.

John smiles. "Good. I'm back in a minute. I won't leave the room, okay?"

When Matt nods a second time John stands up. His knees crack and his right thigh gives a protesting flare of pain after being forced into a crouched position for so long. He straitens and gives his leg a second to adjust. Matt still shows no intention to harm himself any further, so John takes the chance to walk over to one of the build in supply closets. He loads bandages, gauze, antiseptic, sterile compresses and tape on a small tray and grabs a handful of nitrile gloves for good measure before he returns to his friend.

John knows better than to try and convince Matt to sit on the bed or a chair. He just sits down in front of him; legs folded underneath his body Indian style and puts the tray between them, slightly to his left for easy access.

"All right. Matt, the antiseptic might sting a bit, but it is necessary to clean those injuries of yours to prevent infection", he explains while snapping on a pair of gloves with an ease born out of thorough practice.

"It's okay, Sir. I know."

"Good." John nods slowly and sprays the disinfectant on the first gauze pad before he cautiously takes Matt's left hand with his right. He starts to clean the wounds and the skin surrounding them with careful precise movements. The small stab wounds on the other man's palm start to bleed again during the procedure when the gauze removes the clotted blood. But John loses no time taping them shut and applying a firm bandage to restrict the movement of palm and fingers. Next he cleans and dresses the scratches on Matt's arms. Theoretically the bandages aren't necessary, but John doesn't want to give his friend further opportunity to hurt himself.

They don't speak during the whole process. John is focused on his task, his thoughts already processing the next steps he has to take. Matt's condition isn't static. Patients with mental illnesses often experience ups and downs. Less so when they are properly medicated, of course. And Matt hasn't had such a violent relapse in years. A part of John really wants to curse the staff of this clinic for not paying better attention. He has a pretty good idea how it was possible that Matt has worked himself into such a state.

The other man just sits in front of him; doesn't talk, doesn't move, doesn't flinch. He just lets himself be manipulated into the right positions for John to take care of his injuries and stares at the blonde doctor with brown unblinking eyes.

"Matt?" John collects the bloody gauze in his right hand while he waits for his friend to react. When he has everything together he makes a fist and pulls his glove off and inside out over the soiled gauze, then he takes the bundle in his left and repeats the process. Sealed off like this there is no possibility that someone might accidentally come in contact with possibly contaminated material. Not that John has such worries in regard to Matt, but this behaviour is so ingrained into his mind that he doesn't even think about it anymore.

"Hey, Matt", he repeats, when no reaction is forthcoming.

The other man blinks sluggishly. "Hmm?"

"You all right?"

"Yeah." A tentative grin steals onto Matt's face. "It doesn't itch anymore."

John sighs in relieve. "Good. So. No more ants then?"

"No more ants", confirms Matt.

"That's good." He smiles a sad little smile. "Matt, did you… did you take your medication in the last few days?" John's still sitting in front of his friend, gives him no room for evasion.

Matt's body has gone still, his eyes narrow with suspicion. "Of course not", he hisses under his breath. "I can't let them drug me before they take me to interrogation. That's not… No. No!"

ooOO0OOoo 

_**North Korea, Kij**_**ŏ**_**ngdong  
N 37° 56' 43.9902" E 126° 39' 21.6072"  
?. July 2005**_

"_No!" The heavy black cloth over his eyes prevented John from seeing when and where the next punch was going to land. He panted against the pain that raked through his body. His chest, arms and legs throbbed because of the blows he'd received so far. The zip ties around his wrists and ankles and a rough hempen rope bound him tightly to the chair he was sitting on and barred him from curling into himself._

_John closed his eyes and tried to withdraw into himself, to go away and 'hide' like they taught them during SERE training. His breathing pattern changed unconsciously._

"_Oh no. None of that." A sharp cuff to his left ear brought John back into the rank smelling room. For a moment his world seemed to tilt around its axis. John was still dizzy from the blow to his head he'd received a few days (days?) ago and the blindfold over his eyes didn't allow him to find a fix point to orient himself. The overwhelming sense of vertigo transformed into aggressive nausea and John ended up choking back his own vomit. He's reeking already. What's left of his uniform smelled of unwashed body, sweat, blood and dirt. At one point he must have soiled himself, but he wasn't sure any more when that actually happened. For now he was determined not to add the meagre contents of his stomach to this heady mixture._

"_Ya British folks are too stubborn for your own good. We could end this right now, Captain. Could give ya an opportunity to clean yourself up a bit, a hearty meal, medical treatment, even a way back home to good ol'England for ya and what's left of your little team. All ya have to do is to gimme a few answers."_

_John clenched his teeth to get his nausea under control. "I can't answer your questions." He gave the only answer he was allowed to give._

_Strong blunt fingers clawed into his hair and pulled his head back with a brutal yank. The tendons in John's neck stretched painfully against the force. "Wa' was that?"_

"_I can't answer your questions, Sir!" _

_The other man let go of his head with a mocking chuckle and John took the opportunity to take a deep breath. He was well aware of the fact that it was only a matter of time until the first of them broke under the unrelenting pressure. But not yet. John could still feel a spark of stubborn defiance deep within himself. A grim smile stretched his cracked lips. Hell; he was probably going to regret this, but they were screwed anyway._

"_What about you answering a few of my questions for a change?" he croaked. His only answer was silence. He couldn't even hear the bastard move. "What are a bunch of Yanks doing in North Korea, heh? Human trafficking? Smuggling? Weapons? Drugs perhaps?"_

_John's head snapped to the side under the brutal backhanded slap. The metallic tang of blood was rapidly filling his mouth._

"_Ya think you're really funny, heh Watson?"_

_Oh… yeah. That was another thing he had to give up. Name, rank, identification number. All of it so called 'soft information'. No harm done with that, right? The problem with giving in was that every time you gave a piece of information away, the next step down that road was made with less and less reluctance._

_A sharp whistle ripped John from his train of thoughts. "Let's see if ya can hold onto that funny streak of yours when we're through with ya."_

_John could hear steps and voices talking to each other in what he assumed must be Korean. He'd never had much love for the Asian languages, being more at home in Eastern Europe or the Middle East. He'd had a bad feeling about accepting this mission from the very beginning. Since their CO had collected their dog tags before they had headed out. It's bad luck to leave your tags behind; everyone knew that. John snorted in wry amusement. So much for gut feelings._

_His bonds were cut away without much care. A sharp knife nicked the skin of his right wrist in the process, leaving a bleeding gash behind. Then he was manhandled to his feet. His captors didn't bother to remove the blindfold, but they did take the time to secure his hands behind his back (zip ties again), so John was forced to stumble along helpless and blind; chafing his bare feet on the uneven concrete floor. _

_John could feel a slight breeze of fresh air on his face when they left the room, but it didn't last long. Another room and another door that was shut behind him and the next thing he knew, he was forced on his back onto a slightly sloping surface. He didn't even try to resist when they bound him again - his hands still tied and uncomfortably squashed between his back and the hard wood he was lying on – knowing that it would only result in more brutal beatings and taunts without changing the outcome of his situation._

_Someone pressed a cloth over John's face and then came the water…_

ooOO0OOoo

**Great Britain, London  
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'  
17\. January 2010**

"Shhh. Shh." John tries to soothe his agitated friend, taking hold of his hands again in an attempt to quiet and support him. His own hands are shaking badly, but John hopes that Matt is too out of it to notice. "Just breathe, mate. I'm here. I've got you."

It will do no good to tell Matt that nobody here is actually going to hurt him. That the nurses and doctors in this clinic were trying to help him improve. That the medication he has to take every day is supposed to control his anxiety states.

The next minutes creep by impossibly slow while John is muttering reassurances and after a while Matt does calm down again.

"Good lad", says John when his friend starts to use the breathing exercises his psychologists have taught him. When Matt looks up at him again, he continues: "Do you still have them?"

Matt nods. "Course." His right hand sneaks into the front pocket of his hoody and pulls out a crumbled piece of white fabric. He puts it into John's waiting hands.

Inside the blonde finds about five days' worth of antidepressants, mild sedatives and other pills. Their white and yellow coating has started to melt at one point, most likely due to contact with saliva. John is no psychiatrist himself but considering Matt's clinical symptoms he can see why this specific combination of drugs was chosen. The shape and colouring of some of those pills are achingly familiar to John. Cipram, Buspiron and Pregabalin. He had read up on those after they had been prescribed to him for the first time.

An uncomfortable chill settles in his stomach when he remembers the utter numbness that had suffocated his brain during what John privately calls his 'Dark Days'. Those weeks and months during his convalescence in hospital and the first bleak and empty days in London. Before Sherlock. Before he was sucked into this madly enlightening vortex that was the Consulting Detective. Thanks to that man he had lost his cane just to find himself again. And that is when John realizes that he probably owes Sherlock an apology. The two of them are still trying to find ways to handle each other, to find a common daily routine as flatmates and – he dares say - friends. And if John is honest with himself he has to admit that he has perhaps overreacted… a bit. Hell; he's told Sherlock to 'piss off' in everything but the actual words. Sherlock's acid reaction afterwards really shouldn't have come as a surprise. But there is nothing he can do about that right now.

John sights and stuffs the pills along with the cloth into his pocket.

"You kept them under your tongue, right?" John doesn't look up, but Matt's whole body signals the answer to his question. "That's actually pretty clever."

"I know." It's been years since he's last heard this level of steadfast defiance in Matt's voice and John isn't able to resist the small smile that steals onto his features.

The silence that descents between them, is a bit lighter this time. Not weighted down by mindless panic or bad memories. John is almost sorry that he has to break it.

"Do you trust me, Matt?"

The other man looks at him like he can't quite grasp why John would ask such a question in the first place. "Of course. You know that, Doc."

John nods slowly. "If I'd take a look at your medication, control it and approve of it, would you take it?" he asks, trying not to sound hesitating.

"What?" A new emotion emerges from the depths of Matt's brown eyes and the man seems to try and crawl into himself. It's not an expression of distrust, no. Matt does feel betrayed. And that's almost worse than the alternative. "Why?"

John has to swallow hard to get his vocal cords back into working condition. Matt's negative reaction stings. "Matt. Please, listen. You're not well. You know that you're not well, right?"

Davies nods haltingly. He's huddled back into his corner, arms slung around his raised knees in a defensive gesture. His gaze glides restless through the room, searching the shadows for invisible threats, unable to fix itself on anything for long. The only thing he doesn't look at is John.

"Hey. You've known me long enough to know that I'd never harm you. You've just said that you trust me. So please trust me with this." The blonde doctor doesn't say any more. He just sits there, watching and waiting for Matt to sort this dilemma out.

It isn't easy to stand by and watch his friend arguing with himself like this. Matt had always been straightforward and confident. A man so sure of himself and his abilities. But most of those traits had vanished bit by bit when Matt lost himself in that downward spiral the PTSD sent him into. What was left was a mere shadow of the man he had been before.

John berates himself for his thoughts as soon as they have passed through his head. It isn't as if Matt had chosen to end like this. No; in this case John puts the blame squarely on the shoulders of the army. They'd discharged him, because he had been psychologically unfit to serve, without providing sufficient social and psychological support to catch him after he had to leave the military. Left to his own devices Matt had gone down without so much as rising a white flag.

It had been a lucky coincidence that John had met Sherlock Holmes. He too had toed a narrow line after coming back to London and sometimes when he isn't able to sleep, lying awake in the middle of the night, John is able to admit that he had been on the verge of falling down on the wrong side of it. There had been days when the whole world had seemingly vanished under a choking black shroud and everything and everyone had seemed empty and meaningless. He himself most of all. So he can relate. He really can.

John blinks when Matt slowly starts to untangle his limbs. The man looks at him wearily. "I trust you." That's all he says, but for John the statement behind those words is loud and clear.

"Thank you."

The blonde doctor has to stretch a bit to be able to reach the calling button and not even five minutes later they can hear the sound of a soft knock on the door. A young nurse enters the room and blinks, surprised by the unexpected darkness.

"Mr. Davies? What can I do for you?" She smiles brightly when she recognizes John. "Oh. Good evening Doctor Watson." The expression on her face shows clearly that she is a bit confused by their choice to sit in the dark on the floor behind the bed. "Is everything all right?"

John nods politely and smiles at her in return while Matt does his best to disappear behind the nightstand. "Good evening to you, too. No problems here. But would you be so kind to bring me Mr. Davies' chart and his medication for tonight?" His request is a bit of a stretch. He isn't an employee here and John may be Matt's friend, but he isn't his acting physician. Officially and legally he isn't authorized to handle any of it.

The nurse hesitates visibly, but just a moment later a shy grin blooms on her face. "I think I can arrange that. But you have to promise not to give me away."

The mischievous twinkle in her eyes makes John grin in return. "Sure; why not? What do you say, Matt?"

The other man gives a nonverbal huff and John decides to interpret it in their favour. "Well, Matt says he is all right with that, so I guess we have a deal."

"Great." She winks at John. "Just give me a minute." The door closes behind her with a soft click.

"See", John turns back to his friend. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Matt huffs again, looking at John with the most serious expression on his pale face. He doesn't answer, but the tips of his fingers skim lightly over the bandages on his forearms. John's gaze drops down for a second, before he snaps his eyes up to watch his friend's expression.

"Ants again?" he asks.

"No." Matt shakes his head. "No ants."

"Good." John's legs are slowly falling asleep, so he shifts slightly until he is able to rest his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. He wiggles his toes inside his shoes to get rid of pins and needles feeling that comes with the returning blood flow. His new position is more comfortable and has the added benefit that he is now able to see the door.

He pats on the floor at his right side. "Want to join me? Turning yourself into a pretzel like this can't be very comfy."

Matt does indeed start to unfurl from his hiding place but that's the exact moment the door opens again and the young woman from before re-enters the room, a small white tray in one hand, the patients chart in the other. Davies freezes mid-move, his eyes following her as she crosses the room.

The nurse proves her understanding of the situation and keeps the bed between herself and the two men. She smiles at them when she puts the tray down on the soft quilt. "I'll need the chart back in a few minutes, so please don't take too long."

Then she sees the bandages around Matt's arms and her smile wavers a bit. "Ehm… is really everything all right?" she asks.

John nods in confirmation. "I took care of it."

She obviously waits for John to offer more information but when he doesn't she finally hands the chart over. "Okay. I'll leave you to your own devices then." She steps back and repeats: "Don't take too long." before she finally leaves again.

John places the chart on his lap and starts to read over the information recorded on the cover sheet. "Coast is clear, Matt." he states. "Now get your arse over here."

While Matt is busy with finally untangling himself, John grabs the tray from the bed, puts it on the linoleum to his left and examines the contents of the small plastic cup that's placed on it. He has promised his friend to control his medication, and John has no intention of breaking his word.  
He skims over the documented numbers. The dosage is completely reasonable for a man of Matt's weight and age. The kind of drugs and number of pills correspond with the recent history of administration.

Finally he picks one of the pills from the cup and offers it to his friend together with a small bottle of water that came with the medication. Matt takes it carefully.

"That one's called Pregabalin…" The two men soon loose themselves in the lecture. John takes great care to explain the effect of every single drug in painstaking detail and Matt swallows them down one after another.

ooOO0OOoo

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:**  
Sherlock BBC is property of BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
My undying gratitude goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Thank you for your reviews. I'm happy that you like this story so far.  
I'm always a bit unsure of my writing and it helps to know that someone out there is actually reading this. ;-)

BTW: If you find mistakes I'd be happy if you could point them out to me.

* * *

**Once More, with Feeling III**

**Great Britain, London  
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'  
18\. January 2010**

After exactly three hours, twenty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds Sherlock resurfaces from his excursion into his own mind. His bare feet are cold and his neck is hurting. Sherlock registers those sensations and promptly deletes them as unimportant. He still has to check on his latest mould culture in the shower stall, the experiment on the dissolving rate of human body parts in the digestion fluids of the _Nepenthes Ventricosa_ isn't going to perform itself and…

The flat is absolutely silent.

Sherlock jumps up from his sprawled out position on the sofa like a jack in the box and starts to prowl through the premises of 221b. John's jacket (far too thin for the weather of mid January) is not hanging from its hook on the wall near the front door, his shoes are nowhere in sight. No new mug has joined the pile of used dishes to the right of the sink in the kitchen. And John always drinks tea when he comes home. Without exception. (Unless Sherlock has used the last of the tea for his experiments – which he hasn't. Today.)

No jacket, no shoes, no tea. The only logical conclusion is that John hasn't come home yet. Sherlock doesn't have to consult his wristwatch to know that it is half one in the morning. That's unusual. Tomorrow (or rather today, since midnight has already rolled around) is Monday and John has to be at the surgery at eight for his long day shift. His overtly developed sense of duty prevents him normally from staying out too late when he has to go to work the next day.

Sherlock decides to go up to John's room to verify his theory. Avoiding all the creaky steps he creeps upstairs and peeks into his flatmate's room. The bed is empty, still crisply made and undisturbed.

The Consulting Detective pushes the door wide open and enters. He twirls around himself and steeples his fingers under his chin with a frown. This is highly curious. Sherlock would have known if John's had something planned for tonight. The good doctor isn't able to keep a secret for very long, not when Sherlock puts his mind to it.

So where has he gone?

Sherlock pulls his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown and fires off a quick series of texts.

**John, where are you? –SH**

**Are you still at the clinic? –SH**

**Come home, even if occupied otherwise. –SH**

**Bring milk. –SH**

When no immediate answer is forthcoming Sherlock sprawls down on John's bed with a frustrated huff. The doctor had still been angry with him when he'd left the Yard yesterday. It is possible that John is executing his usual tactic of evasion. When upset, the doctor tends to walk his temper off rather than confront Sherlock with an argument.

**Lestrade. Is John with you? Send him home! –SH**

**Lestrade! –SH**

**Lestrade! –SH**

It takes three minutes and sixteen seconds until his phone buzzes with an answer.

**Crzy sod. Do you kno what time it s? Im at home. Sleepin. **

Sherlock sneers at the typos. It seems Lestrade's limited ability to use his brain diminishes significantly when woken up unexpected. He types his reply.

**That doesn't answer my question. Is John with you? –SH**

**NO! Bugger off!**

Hm. So much for that. His next alternative is – of course – Sarah. She and John broke up a while ago, but there is still the distinct possibility that she'd allow John to sleep on her sofa for a night or two. So it's her nightly rest Sherlock disturbs next:

**Have you seen John? –SH**

**No. Not today. Did something happen? **

It's interesting in itself, that her reply comes within forty seconds after he sends his question, but since her answer too is of no use to him, Sherlock has to take his research elsewhere. He stands up and leaves John's room without bothering to close the door behind him.

Back into the living room he flops down into his armchair, grabs the (John's) laptop and starts to type.

The visiting hours at Bethlam end at six, but Sherlock wouldn't put it past John to have an agreement with the staff. The man is good with people. They like him and that makes it likely that they would make an exception for John. But he doubts that those exceptions would last past midnight.  
A quick call to the front desk confirms this. Apparently John has left shortly after ten, after a rather long conversation with the head-nurse of the night shift.

The young woman at the phone (smoker, will be sick with a cold next week) tells him that Doctor Watson left on foot and didn't seem to be in a hurry, even if the poor man had looked like he was cold… That's the point where Sherlock hangs up on her.

His phone vibrates with an incoming text. It's from Sarah, so Sherlock ignores it, choosing rather to text John again.

**Your presence is strongly required. I set fire to the kitchen. –SH**

**No I didn't. But the idea looks really appealing. –SH**

**John? –SH**

**John! –SH**

Still no answer. Either John is ignoring him on purpose or he isn't able to answer him and Sherlock likes neither of those possibilities. He hacks into the database of John's bank and checks his account for good measure. Tesco's, Tesco's, Tescos', the abonnements for his medical journal and a porno website, Tesco's. Nothing. Sherlock switches to his credit card next and here he finds something interesting. It seems that John has used it to pay for a rental car not even two hours ago.

Sherlock leans back and staples his fingers under his chin. Why would John be in need of a car? Certainly not to reach a destination within the city. Ergo: He has left London. But where has he gone and why.

His flatmate has left him with a really interesting puzzle here.

The drawback is that, since John is no longer in the city, it will be no use to consult the traffic cameras for his search. His only option is to use the GPS chip in John's phone to discover his location. But unfortunately he doesn't have the resources to hack into NAVSTAR.

Sherlock curses involuntarily.

It seems he will have to call Mycroft.

ooOO0OOoo

**Great Britain, Birling Gap  
N 50° 45' E 0° 12'  
18\. January 2010**

After leaving his car in Birling Gap, John had just zipped up his jacket, buried his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and then he had started walking. He'd paid no heed to streets or pathways, just following the coastline over the first sloping hills of the Seven Sisters. He'd dropped down on the crest of what was probably Baily's Hill when the need to just walk had finally deserted him.

John has lost the feeling in his fingers ages ago. The wind out here is freezing and harsh but the panorama of the white moonlit chalk cliffs glowing in the dark over steep precipices and the churning sea of the English Channel is absolutely breath-taking.

He sits on the ground, legs bend, his crossed forearms planted firmly on his knees. The cold wetness of the earth has already started to seep through the seat of his trousers but for once John is absolutely oblivious to the signals his body sends him. His mind is far away, still ensnared by events that not only happened on the other side of the world, but also – seemingly – a whole lifetime ago. But not even time and space can dull the crippling terror he still feels whenever something drags those memories kicking and screaming out of the dark, tightly locked places he keeps them in.

John shudders, but the gooseflesh that ripples over his skin has nothing to do with the ice cold caress of the wind.

ooOO0OOoo

_**North Korea, Kij**_**ŏ**_**ngdong  
N 37° 56' 43.9902" E 126° 39' 21.6072"  
July (?) 2005**_

_John's huddled in the farthest corner of the tiny cell that he had come to think of as his during the last few weeks. Arbitrary shivers wrecked his weakened muscles; his skin's hot and dry, like ancient parchment, vulnerable and prone to break at the lightest touch. The numerous scratches that covered his body were inflamed, infected due to the absolute lack of hygiene._

_It had been days, since he last saw or heard a sign of life from his comrades. For all he knew they could be dead, but John was already well past the point of caring. Too weakened by hunger and dehydration to do more than force one breath after another into his resisting lungs. _

_It was too exhausting to move, too exhausting to think. A small clinical voice in the back of his head informed him matter-of-factly that his body had started to shut down. He was removed from everything but the tiny miserable bubble he had surrounded himself with. _That's what dying feels like. _A part of John embraced that thought with something akin to relieve. He wanted it to end. Wanted this ordeal to be over. He had no strength left to fight any more…_

_The sound of gunshots and the dull roar of a helicopters engine didn't really register in John's sluggish mind. But the sharp grind of wood over concrete when the door of his cell was pulled open, forced a helpless whimper out of him. Nothing good ever came through that door. John tried to force his uncooperative limbs into compliance, tried to curl himself up, to sink into the dirt packed floor, or vanish, or die, or simply cease to exist._

_He accomplished neither and just a moment later gloved fingers pried his resisting eyelids apart. The sudden, violent assault of brightness brought a sharp pain that burned like acid along his optic nerves. He wanted to scream but his mouth was so dry that all that came out was a hoarse groan._

"_That one's alive, Sir."_

_There was a soft rustle of cloth and then warm fingers were searching for his pulse at his carotid artery._

"_Hey there, mate. Are you with us? Can you hear me?"_

_Deft hands were feeling along his body, taking his vital signs, searching for major injuries, but John didn't even flinch. He knew better than that. He'd been here long enough to know how they played their games. Deception, lies, false promises and always the looming threat of pain. If he was able to convince them that he was too out of it to react, then he could perhaps buy a few more precious hours before they started their game anew. _

_One of the hands returned to his forehead to smooth the outgrown spikes of his hair out of his face._

"_Don't worry, soldier. We're here to take you home."_

_Those words wrenched a desperate sob out of his parched throat and John would have cried, had his body any liquid left to spare._

_Because that was the worst lie he could imagine._

ooOO0OOoo

**Great Britain, Birling Gap  
N 50° 45' E 0° 12'  
18\. January 2010**

"You could have simply answered your phone, you know?"

John has been aware that Sherlock would be able to find him at some point, but he still flinches violently when he hears this smooth, dark voice so unexpected directly behind him. A shaky breath steals itself over his lips and the blond doctor blinks rapidly to force his memories back into the shadows before he dares to look over his shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes stands a few feet behind him on the sloping ground, his coat and curly hair whipping in the strong wind and looking once more like a dark hero right out of a romantic novel. The man's arms are crossed behind his back and he looks down at John, eyebrows arched in a disapproving frown.

"I texted you. I… even tried to call you."

John's gaze wanders back to the dark, unfathomable ocean, unable to hold the eye contact any longer. "I know."

The unspoken hint that he'd ignored Sherlock's attempts at communication sits heavily between them. To be honest: Normally John would never disregard a text Sherlock sent him but after the first twenty messages (which consisted mostly of his name with a variety of attached exclamation and question marks) he'd simply put his phone on silent to get rid of the persistent beeping.

"I just needed a little time for myself."

Sherlock arches his eyebrow even higher and John thinks that it will probably merge with his hairline if the detective keeps this up. The thought makes him chuckle despite himself and Sherlock huffs indignantly.

"I am glad, that I can somehow contribute to your amusement. But just though you know; I really was… concerned about your lack of communication." The younger man steps forward and folds his lanky body down until he sits next to John on the damp ground.

A small, tired smile finds its way onto John's face at this reluctant confession. Under normal circumstances this self-proclaimed sociopath would have never admitted that he could develop something akin to worry for another person. But somehow John seems to have wormed his way under the icy exterior Sherlock presents to the world. Enough at least, to merit a bit of concern and to follow him to the coast of the English Channel in the middle of a sodding cold night.

For a few minutes there is nothing between them but the cold wind and the sound of the dancing sea. Then Sherlock takes a deep breath. "John. Will you… please… look at me?"

The doctor ducks his head until his chin rests on his crossed forearms and his fingers tighten their grip on his dark jacket, but he doesn't take his eyes from the invisible horizon. "I'd rather not."

Sherlock eyes his flatmate with a thoughtful gaze. John is reluctant, almost afraid even of what the Detective might see in his eyes; what he might deduce from what he finds there. His visits with Matt always remind John of the days past. The better and the worse. Today's events have unearthed dark and painful memories that the doctor has buried deep within himself. And as open as he is with other aspects of his life, he is reluctant to have those memories examined, taken apart under that merciless, laser like gaze.

"Why here?" Sherlock's question startles John once again out of his reverie.

"What?"

A new gush of wind whips his dark curls into the Detectives face with punishing force, but Sherlock ignores the discomfort in favour of his newest puzzle. "Why did you come here of all places."

John chuckles darkly. It's a dangerous mood he's in right now. He hurts. A sharp fundamental pain deep within his soul. And John desperately wants to leash out at the next available target. He has to reign himself in with a conscious effort of will.  
"What? You can't deduce that?" A challenge. He knows that he is giving his flatmate carte blanche to do his worst and turn the full force of his deductive abilities onto him. But there is a little, twisted part inside of him that wants to feel this pain, needs it even. It's the same primal part that urges him on to jump headfirst into danger, as soon as an opportunity presents itself. That makes him drop everything, as soon as Sherlock calls him to his side.

John doesn't know if this is some sort of deeply ingrained need to accommodate Sherlock or just some sort of masochistic streak manifesting itself. Whatever it is, it certainly can't be healthy, but considering his lifestyle he seemed to have screwed up his sense if self-preservation a long time ago. He grins darkly. _So; bring it on, then._

Sherlock's gaze follows John's over the dark, rough sea. "You've been here before. You know this area well enough to find your way up here in the dark and without a torch, but you never lived here. Not on a permanent basis. The fact that you use this place as a refuge when in psychological distress tells me that you associate mostly positive memories with it. So you either have extended family in this area or you used to come here during holidays as a child. Since you never mentioned any relatives aside from your sister I assume it's the latter." Sherlock's gaze wanders back to his flatmate. A deep frown lies on John's face. "Today has been stressful for you. You visited an old army mate, who is now patient in a mental health facility and regarding the state of your cuffs and the residue of talcum powder on your hands, the visit didn't go over well."

The younger man pauses; either to collect his thoughts or perhaps just to add a bit of drama to his statement. "You have a very compassionate nature. But your _friend's_ distress alone wouldn't be nowhere near enough to drive you to such extreme measures. You have literally fled the city. The only logical conclusion would be, that the reason for your friend's agitation touches you on a very personal level. So; a shared hardship? Your common military background points to a mission gone awry, personal loss maybe. A very traumatic event that connects both of you and that draws you to his side again and again, no matter how painful the reminders may be. You hold yourself responsible for his situation. And that, combined with today's disagreement between us triggered your habit to retreat to safer ground when you feel emotionally compromised. You came here because this is the closest available place that you don't connect with the army or your current life in London."

The harsh wind steals the shaky sigh directly from John's parted lips. "That was… really impressive. Truly remarkable, yeah." The doctor's voice lacks the usual admiration that colours it when he praises Sherlock's deductions. In fact, his tone is flat and far, far away.

"We've known each other for a while now. Served in the same unit for a few years. I… ehm. We were… " The doctor shakes his head absentmindedly and starts again: "It's just… It's so hard to see him like that. There are days when I just can't bear to look at him." John's voice is strained. His hands are balled into tight fists, his fingernails biting painfully into his palms. Punishing himself for thinking badly of his friend. "And then I feel guilty because of it."

Sherlock responds to John's words with a moment of introspection. Numerous dissertations concentrate on the analysis of psychological effects of battlefield dynamics. Stress and a violent environment often forge a strong interdependence. And not always for the better.

Holmes steeples his fingers under his chin in a familiar gesture, but he doesn't look at John when he asks: "What happened?"

The blond doctor grunts something incomprehensible, but doesn't react otherwise, so Sherlock feels the need to specify the parameters of his question: "You overcame your depressive tendencies when you moved into the Baker Street flat with me. Something triggered you today and it put you in a remarkably black mood. So, what is it?"

John pulls a heavy sigh from deep within his chest and rolls his left shoulder in an uncomfortable gesture. His muscles twinge with a sharp, stabbing pain. "Today was an awfully long and…" He hesitates for a second, "and trying day. Can't you just leave it alone for now?"

"Well, actually that was yesterday, because it's already past…"

"Sherlock! Don't." The demand comes crisp and military sharp.

The Consulting Detective falls silent with an irritated shake of his head. This isn't the first time John has used his _army voice_ in Sherlock's presence. It isn't even the first time he used it on Sherlock himself. (For such a lenient man John can have a remarkably short fuse and the man has a temper to be weary of.) But John's lack of cooperation in this matter is, well… irritating.

"And I don't have depressive tendencies," adds the doctor as an afterthought.

Sherlock arches an elegantly curved eyebrow. "Your psychiatrist says otherwise."

"Bloody hell!" The doctor punches his closed fist into the half frozen ground in a bout of frustration. "Is there anybody, who hasn't read Ella's notes?" He looks up at Sherlock and the other man returns his gaze with a meaningful expression on his angular face.

John huffs exasperated. "Forget that I asked. I really don't want to know."

Once more silence grows between them. John's gaze is fixed onto the dark sea, as if he is trying to stare down some sort of invisible demon and in consideration of the new knowledge Sherlock has gathered today, this euphemism doesn't seem to be too far off.

But it doesn't take too long until the Consulting Detective starts fidgeting again. "John?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you planning to do now?"

John looks at his flatmate with a suspicious frown on his face. "Concerning what?"

"Well." Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on his place. "Just sitting here is terribly boring. Furthermore it's dark, it's cold…" And here his voice drops to a, uneasy whisper, "and the seat of my trousers is all _wet_."

A surprised chuckle steals itself over John's lips. "I'll give you the boring. But what happened to 'the body is just transport'? You point that out often enough, after all."

Sherlock huffs indignantly. "And as you like to point out, transport needs to be maintained. And a cystitis may be fascinating from a purely scientific point of view, but personally I'd prefer to avoid it."

This dryly delivered remark finally makes John laugh. (As intended; but Sherlock would never admit to such a sentimental intent.) His dark mood doesn't vanish per se, but it seems to recede a bit, leaving room for a lighter atmosphere.

"Yes, I absolutely see your point." Enduring Sherlock when he is sick or handicapped in any way really is hell on earth, not that John would ever say this out loud. His sense of self-preservation may be a bit whacky, but that doesn't mean that he's killed it altogether. And they may not live together that long yet, but John has already learned his lessons.

Sherlock looks at John with a patronizing expression that tells the doctor exactly, that his flatmate is once more able to deduce his thought process without difficulties. A small grin lifts the corner of Sherlock's mouth: "And aside from that I came to the conclusion that it would be necessary to inform you, that you are expected to start your shift at the surgery in about…" He looks at his watch in an exaggerated gesture. "…four and a half hours."

In an involuntary gesture John checks the time on his own wristwatch. He pulls a face when he sees how late - or early – it already is. "Oh, damn it. I totally forgot… Bugger." He stands up, his limbs stiff and uncooperative after the long exposure to the cold. "Let's go." John takes a moment to stretch, before he extends his right hand to help his flatmate to his feet. Sherlock accepts without hesitation, his gloved fingers warm against John's icy skin.

John shrugs deeper into his jacket. His jeans and boxers are sticking uncomfortably to his behind but he bears it stoically. There are certain things an Englishman doesn't talk about, even if their flatmates are able to deduce the state of their underwear by the length of their stride.

"Well then, let's move," John beckons Sherlock to follow him. "I left the car down in the village. Isn't that far. If we hurry I should make it just in time for my shift."

"That isn't necessary, John. I have a car right here." John's gaze follows Sherlock's outstretched arm to a black limousine that is nearly invisible under the starlight. The doctor opens his mouth, clearly taken aback, but Sherlock interrupts him: "And don't worry. Mycroft will take care of your rental. I wouldn't be surprised, if it is already halfway back to London."

John chuckles. "Mycroft. Did you actually ask your brother to help you find me? Voluntarily?"

"Well." Sherlock puts both hands into the pockets of his Belstaff and with his protruding lower lip he suddenly looks like a sulky teenager. "Since you felt it was necessary to leave the city, I was lacking the required resources to find you. Mycroft was the only logical choice."

"Yes, I'm sure he was." The doctor resists the impulse to dig deeper and squints in the direction of the car instead. "Is that the BMW with the white leather interior?"

Sherlock nods affirmatively and John shrugs. "I hope the driver brought towels, then. Or he will be very busy cleaning those seats later." His left hand brushes the wet seat of his trousers in a self-conscious gesture.

The detective grins unabashed. "Shall we, then?"

John returns the grin without restraint. "Let's go."

The easy camaraderie between them isn't quite back yet, but John is visibly getting there as they stroll down the hill side by side. Sherlock Holmes is stealing a sideway glance at the man he has reluctantly started to call a friend. There is a thoughtful expression on his angular face and he hopes that John won't be too angry, when he inevitably finds out.

ooOO0OOoo

TBC


End file.
